The Christmas Candle (9 page)

“It was the biggest mistake of my life,” Sawyer pleaded.

“It's certainly one for the record books,” Chelsea deflected. “Not to mention the tabloids and social media.”

A few months later Chelsea left Seattle. And Sawyer. That's when Sawyer vowed he would change.

I wonder how that's going for him
.

Chelsea had not spoken to Sawyer since. Her mother's untimely death provided the perfect opportunity to start over. Or at least escape. She imposed strict communication rules when she moved back to her old hometown.

“Half an hour with the kids each day?” he asked.

“Yes, but they call you,” she negotiated.

He agreed to her terms as long as she agreed this was only a “trial separation.” The jury was still out. Chelsea had divorced Sawyer a dozen times in her imagination, but she had two reasons that kept her from going through with it, and they were sleeping upstairs. Hancock and Emily loved their dad in spite of all his flaws.

“Wish I could do the same,” Chelsea said aloud, as she boxed the last of the cupcakes. The first special order of the Higher Grounds Café was complete. She paused to admire her handiwork.
Perfect
. And they needed to be. Tomorrow she would deliver them to one of San Antonio's most prestigious neighborhoods. And if she was going to make it on her own, without Sawyer, her new life had to start now.

 

From Chelsea's café, Alamo Heights was due north, both on the map and in social standing. Chelsea's SUV weaved up a hill lined with flawless homes and inviting gardens, typical of the coveted 09 zip code.

“I miss our old house,” Hancock said as they arrived at the delivery address.

Chelsea glanced up at a pristine Tudor home. It held an uncanny resemblance to their house in Seattle. Whoever lived here did not need the ten-dollar gift certificate she planned to deliver with the cupcakes. But after a slow week, Chelsea was feeling the need to re-establish the Higher Grounds Café in the community.

Hancock rattled on. “I miss living by the water. Having my own room. Our backyard. The game room. Dad's giant TV . . .”

“Okay, mister!” Chelsea interrupted. “We'll find a new house before long. Something nice. In the meantime, start thinking of some things you're grateful for.” She reached her right hand over and knuckle-rubbed her son's hair. “For example, I'm grateful for some one-on-one time with you.”

She hoped the feeling was mutual. Chelsea had, after all, rescued Hancock from an afternoon of tea parties with his little sister and the babysitter.

Chelsea stacked several boxes of cupcakes into Hancock's open arms, and together they walked toward the grandiose front door.

Chelsea rang the doorbell and waited, imagining lighthearted table talk and celebratory clinking of champagne glasses within. It was strange to be on the outside, but the soirees and black-tie benefits, those were Sawyer's thing. He was the life of the party, and she often got lost in the shuffle. But not today. Chelsea relished the simplicity of her assignment. For a brief moment, she even contemplated introducing herself by her maiden name.

She didn't get to make a decision. The door opened to a slender blond woman who could have stepped off a catalog page showcasing “casual elegance.” She wore a diamond pendant above her asymmetrical black top, a black-and-white viscose skirt that seemed to float about her, and a surprised expression. “Chelsea Chambers?”

“Deb Kingsly?”

Deb threw her arms around Chelsea. “It feels like a million years!” she said. “I haven't seen you since . . .”

Chelsea knew exactly when. “The wedding,” she said, almost whispering.

“Right,” Deb said, glancing at Hancock. “And who is this handsome fellow?”

“This is Hancock—my delivery guy,” Chelsea quipped. “I reopened Mom's café this week, and . . . I hope I'm not ruining a surprise, but I think your daughter ordered birthday cupcakes.”

“And she's been raving about them all week. I can't believe you're back! Come help me put the cupcakes on a platter, and then I have to introduce you to everyone.” Deb dragged Chelsea and Hancock into the kitchen, and from there to the formal living room. A dozen women, all well-dressed, some cosmetically curved, formed a horseshoe around Chelsea, who wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.

“Everyone, this is my childhood friend, Chelsea Chambers, wife of Sawyer Chambers.” Deb paused for the gasps. “She just moved back to San Antonio to reopen the old Higher Grounds Café in King William. Y'all have to stop by and make her feel welcome!”

Chelsea smiled, grateful for Deb's thoughtful (and very Texan) introduction. Each woman introduced herself and promised to visit the store. Most importantly, the cupcakes were a big hit. More than one diet was momentarily abandoned.

 

Chelsea took the long route back, scouting out potential homes along the way. Somewhere, nestled among the pecan trees and terra cotta roofs, was the steeple of Alamo Heights Methodist, the church where she and Sawyer were married. On the surface it was a storybook wedding: The red carpet and white pews. Flowers everywhere. Each member of the Longhorn backfield dressed in a tux. Her sister and two best friends as bridesmaids. Her mother in the front row. But the bride walked down the aisle alone, carrying white roses and a child in her womb.

“So does this mean we're staying in San Antonio for good?” Hancock asked as Chelsea stopped to pluck a real estate brochure from beneath the For Sale sign of a picture perfect home.

“Would that be so bad?” Chelsea asked.

“Maybe not. Not if Dad was with us.”

As Chelsea passed from one zip code to the next, she noticed that yet another Café Cosmos had sprouted. A
Now Hiring
banner hung beneath the slick sign, but business was already booming. Luxury cars wrapped around the drive-through lane. Patrons spilled onto the patio, where the sunshine had convinced everyone it was spring.

When Chelsea got back to the café, she was pleased to see a customer. But he hadn't come for the coffee.

“Can you sign for the Higher Grounds Café?” the uniformed postal carrier asked.

“I am the owner,” Chelsea offered with confidence. Her burst of esteem was but a vapor. The letter was from the IRS.

 

The story continues in
Miracle at the Higher Grounds Cafe
by Max Lucado—Available February 2015